Of Dice and Duty
by What Shouldn't Work
Summary: A god of laughter has a new game to play, or maybe just better rules. It can be a chance for a disliked Space Marine to redeem himself, or at least to bring more killing potential to an anime. After all, cross Warhammer into anime and Bishōnen characters will not be in for a good time. Nor goblins. Nor goblin champions. Nor mysterious evil lords. Reviews appreciated.
1. I

**I**

**THOUGHT FOR THE DAY: **_Knowledge is power, guard it well__._

* * *

A six sided dice represents fate, no more than that, and that secret is barely known to even the pantheon. The same gods that envisioned the board, establishing rules to prevent mutually assured destruction, never thought to question why their inevitable return to competition never tilted the world to one of many extremes. Roll the dice, let fate decide their competing omnipotence, yet when every deity sees all then none truly do. That is why mortals occasionally filter through the cracks and become deities themselves, all due to dancing dice believed to be unpredictable.

Good and evil, such simple and romantic ideologies to these gods that wrote the rules and invented the dice. Truth and Illusion are much more nuanced, at least in their minds, having swept over this self-imposed prison of gods and mortals to see if the former's sadism is merely mistaken as brutal honesty and if the later's crafting is lying to the hopeful. A _'praying'_ character reaches up to their chosen deity, a blessing is delivered by chance, and two shadowed figures flick the dice just to influence their ultimate decision. A 'two' one day means life. A 'three' another day means death. At times the dice are law and at times the dice are suggestions. Perhaps the Earth Mother simply felt it appropriate to ignore a desperate prayer one day, not that she had been influenced by whatever haze waved out by some higher meddling.

After all, there is a reason Goblin Slayer intrigues and annoys these manipulators. The dice have no concrete ruleset when Truth and Illusion decide it fitting to change the statistics for a campaign, yet altering stats and tossing dice does little to change Goblin Slayer's path. Perhaps he is meant to be the next god instead of whichever warlock rises to Demon Lord status, although even the world's personal gods bend to the two gamer's whim. Curiosity leads to concern, and concern leads to desperation. A mortal that ignores the rules is a potential god that breaks into their overlording reality, and the last great villain proved to be a wondrous flop.

Demon Lord's ghost flounders in the dark gods' claim to the afterlife, another would-be addition to the pantheon that decided stealing power meant more than raising armies. Illusion wished for a great adventure, Truth grew impatient with yet another cliched outcome, and this time a new fledgling Dark Lord had a clear message driven into his visions. **Breed Goblins. Breed Demons. Swamp the adventurers before they can reach whatever citadel he claimed. Treat Goblin Slayer as the immediate threat.** Perhaps that would change things up, viewing the much more powerful _Hero_ party as a distraction. The Demon Lord swept through the land when Goblin Slayer had no great standing in the Guild Hall, nearly overcoming that Sword Maiden a second time in her life, in large part to a massive army. His second chance had been laughably short, building his personal strength instead of doubling down on that Goblin army, allowing it to be decimated by one man. No army, no barrier between him and Hero, no defense when that little brat found a way to bypass defenses he thought invulnerable.

One classic _'Nani?'_ later and a ghost is crushed in an evil deity's grip.

This time, no egotistical power hoarding. Truth stands over the table, his arms crossed and eyes narrowed, keeping tabs on the new Dark Lord murdering an elder wizard to lay claim to the previous Demon Lord's tomes. Illusion stands on a pile of this realm's rulebooks, digging her fingers into the game board, spreading a green miasma through an elven forest. Scouts, Hobgoblins, Champions, Shamans. It is not even worth flicking the dice to decide so many High Elf fates. Between mortal women and Illusion's touch, an Elven _Life_ Goddess wails in protest, cursing the rolling dice and grasping at the spirits rising from dead bodies. Her wails turn into shrieks, finding her silver fingers slipping through High Elf consciousnesses that scream in the dark and vanish in a Dark Lord's maw.

It starts as a few Elven adventurers captured by a fledgling nest, all deceived by the true rules that grant a boon to numerous Goblins. A _swarming_ bonus, Truth and Illusion once decided, is proof that otherwise pathetic stats belay raw power, something the new Dark Lord has picked up on quickly, and haughty little High Elves lack Goblin Slayer's foresight into this hidden racial ability. Five captured women became sixty Goblin Scouts. Sixty Goblin Scouts became an overrun village. Rinse, repeat, and a massive greenskin army marches across the map towards the High Elf capital. These are well bred Goblins, born intelligent by elven hosts, and several self-styled Goblin Lords stand atop captured arboreal huts to chant the Dark Lord's blessings. There may be some infighting from time to time, one particularly cautious Shaman reflecting his Dark Lord's wariness and having to zap a few Champions into submission, and one hefty Goblin Champion crushing a few Shaman heads when they argued it wise to not assault a High Elf stronghold so hastily, but so long as the unifying leaders kept their amassed tribes moving forward then who were the rulemakers to denounce either?

Truth's sadism echoes as laughter with this world's dark gods, and Illusion's gleeful planning satiates their demonic thirsts. This new army gains might with each passing day. No, better yet, this _horde _grows fat and strong over every claimed village. The sadistic god peers through one of the realm's dark god's eyes, in turn through the Dark Lord's scrying gaze, and through that the Goblin Champion stomping around a breeding pit dug into former farmland. Several bloated bodies writhe in agony in its depths, while other freshly captured High Elf women squirm against wooden crosses and ropes lining the perimeter. Perhaps this Goblin Champion is a bit too bold avoiding the caves, although having amassed a greenskin legion would make hiding impossible. Better to gloat and present his captives out in the open, mocking the Forest Princess glaring over the capital's stone and tree-root wall, picturing just how large she would be with his superior heirs.

Illusion's plans within plans are represented by the same dark gods rubbing their chins. The one Goblin Shaman matching the Champion's overall might has proven to be a crafty one ad best and obnoxiously cautious at worst. Goblin Scouts rush to and fro at the gentle flick of his bony finger, relaying orders between several cavern systems in a surprisingly well dictated hierarchy. Goblin Champion's cunning brutality falls a bit short to Goblin Shaman's brutal cunning, as the later has the younger Goblins earn their keep hauling supplies and orders between his gathered tribes. Capturing stragglers that slipped through the larger Campion's meaty fingers is by no means glorious, and spending most of his time brooding on a deer bone throne slows Illusion's storyline to a crawl, but he did prove necessary in his fortified realm. High Elf counterattacks at the Goblin Champion's flank found themselves ambushed by Goblin Shaman's minions, and expeditions into the forest discovered a crude yet deadly underground fortress sprawling through the several dozen caves marking the land.

Given Goblin Champion's claim to Forest Princess, it would be fitting for High Elf Archer's mad dash back to her homeland to end as a chained playing at the brooding Shaman's feet. Goblin Slayer's figure moved alongside his other comrades, no more than a day's time from the frantic elven woman riding full tilt to reach her capital, and brutally cunning might just be the better choice in dealing with someone who outsmarts and outmaneuvers cunning brutality. The Adventurer's Guild best and brightest were already finding it to be a mistake setting up camp a few miles from the Goblin Champion, focusing on the quest's report on the army, never suspecting there to be a rearguard right under their feet.

Dice roll from Illusion's hand, sentencing the newest party gathering at the intended basecamp. A pity, she quite liked that silver Dwarf. Two more dice roll next to a Rhea's steel figure and, well, hopefully she enjoys the next week or so as a mother. Gold, a fitting color for that Human Fighter, and the dice does not favor swinging such a large weapon inside a cave. That comically bulky pewter Human will not being cleaved in two at the wai-**_ait a minute._**

* * *

Truth grunts and nods in satisfaction. See? This new villain learns quick. Sustain an army to feed your power. Grow strong through conquered land, not a few broken castles and- Why is Illusion eyeing him? His eyes narrow at an accusation. No, he did not summon some new piece on the table. No, pewter is not a rank in that entertainingly naive Adventurer's Guild. Wait, this piece ignore the dice too? Move over, he wants to see this-

Both rulemakers sharply glance up, spotting a die falling from the ceiling.

It skips and patters across the table, lands on a three, and a Hobgoblin's figure shudders. Another die follows, bounces close to it, landing on a four. Truth leans in, glowing eyes narrowing at the Hobgoblin's figure crumbling and snapping at a new figure set close by it. Illusion leans in as well, blinking at the hulking Human-like carving. Neither made it. Neither felt it being summoned. Neither tossed the two dice from above. Both deities gaze at their realm's smokey ceiling, overlooking one of the game board's tiles popping open on a hinge from a bell-capped shoe.

A tiny Frankish jester steps through, body pivoting from horizontal to vertical in one smooth step, grinning at the two distracted gods. Bending forward lets him hook a foot around the tile, snapping it shut after him with a much louder click, sealing away the blue web-like haze. '_Ah, children!'_ he calls out, splaying his arms wide at both gods leaping back, _'am I playing this correctly?'_

* * *

In the closed-minded sense, the gods who tossed their dice about put little thought into their great game being part of many. They had all gathered in this single intertwining reality, this single domain superior to the hapless mortal realm and pantheon, and considered it improbable that the hazy walls held doors. The thing about improbable is that there is still a chance for something to be possible, and omnipotence only works when it does not conflict with the presence of another deity. Perhaps that is why these game masters did not see the tile silently part and close, nor realize the tiny jester had popped out of existence and reappeared behind them at full height.

Less spoken, more felt as an emotion, the cheerful comedian lets his apology be known for having intruded and wishes to play as well. Just when Truth protests an entry without permission first, the jester swept his hand across the figure he played and left a dice spinning on a point. For a moment the rolled dice spun perfectly on its axis, the protesting god leaning closer out of curiosity to watch it, and it toppled over onto a 'three'. The jester grinned even more and waved again. Another dice spun instead of rolling about bouncing, and then another.

Four. Three. Four. Six. Six. Five. Two, with the jester sighing over the inevitability of a failed roll for whatever game he was now playing, but wait! One hand flicked up, carrying a card of failed wounding rolls between index and middle fingers, and the other hand waved again. The dice spun, toppled over, and four goblin figures crumbled into nothingness around the new model.

'_Let's play a game'. _He seems to blink, if the glow of his eyes flickering in and out could be called that. '_No, that would be too cliched'._

Two more dice rolled. A hit, a wound, no saving through. Another goblin shattered.

'_We're all here to have fun, hmm? Yes, that's better, we're here, to have fun'._

Two more dice. A goblin split at the waist.

'_At least, I'm here to have fun'_.

A hobgoblin's arm vanished at the elbow, then it's jaw, then an ever expanding hole formed at the chest.

'_And we all need to laugh and love and enjoy each other's company…' _He peers across the table at a hooded goddess_. _'_Again_'.

Before the goddess of Illusion could verbally(or more so empathically) lash out at the newcomer, Truth held up a hand to keep the peace, gathered two dice from the board, and rolled one after the other from a flicking thumb.

'_Ah. A hit and wound'._ The jester rolled a dice in return. '_And a saving throw'_. His figure remained standing before the goblin shaman.

'_You see'_. The jester rolled his own dice again. Hit. Wound. No saving through. '_You've all played this game, but you simply roll. It's too… chaotic. And chaos is… fun, at times, but you need to control it. Not strict rules. Controlled chaos? Yes, that's it. Just enough control. Just like a certain golden barbarian controlling his chaotic species'._

The gathered deities found the goblin shaman having vanished and reappeared in the new figure's outstretched arm.

'_Still… chaotic? Hm, loose, yes, loose enough for a story'_.

The soft snap of a tiny stone neck left the shaman figure's head rolling a few inches from the new model's base.

'_Cliched in the end? Hm. Yes? No… yes! All stories have been told. Everything's a cliche. We just need to find a new way to tell a new story…'_

The laughing god stretched his arms wide.

'_...Together. Shall we all use our minds?'_

Below this reality, what may have been human at birth crouched before the survivors whimpering in a corner. The goblin shaman's shattered head is easily held between calloused fingers. Ignoring the sickened stares and retching from the surviving adventurers, he scoops the shaman's half-intact brains out with a thumb and easily swallows it whole.

It would take a good while for the first bits of primitive thought to carry basic words from that devoured mind. Protein strands from an organ that was not meant for modern humans pulls apart the fatty tissue, and when those have done their duty and kill the connection from spine to goblin mind, the human-shaped warrior stands and coughs out the blood and brain.

Without sacred armor to guard his hand, the defender of humanity wipes his mouth with bare knuckles and speaks three words in three different languages, all with the same meaning. High Gothic, Low Gothic, and lastly a word found from the goblin's mind that is felt to be one these survivors would know.

"Go."

The young adventurers crawl and stumble away from the discarded Astartes, as he turns towards the goblin shaman's throne. '_Protect the spawn,'_ remnants of the shaman's mind hurriedly whispered to him. '**Purge the xenos,'** his indoctrination replied.

And as more figures vanished from the tabletop, the jester casually pushes the unarmored Astartes' model along with a single gloved finger. '_Let's use our minds. I think even this character can be redeemed. Shall I tell you his tale? No, that's not needed. It's all a cliche. Another hero dishonored by following the laws of the land, and not the laws of the hidden heart. A good thing he has two hearts, hm? A second heart is a second chance'. _The god peers down at an elven deity of brilliant green hair poking her hear through the entrance. One pointy eared clown to another pointy eared huntress. '_Do keep my nieces and nephews away when he remembers everything'._

**=][=**

AN: September 18th, 2019: Still deciding on which Space Marine to use.

AN: July 19th, 2020: Updating old chapters after the year long hiatus, tying everything together.


	2. II

**II**

**THOUGHT FOR THE DAY: **_The difference between gods and demons largely depends on where one is standing at the time._

* * *

AN: Reworked and added to second chapter on July 13, 2020. Disliked the first posting. May go back and rework again.

* * *

An Astartes, in his entirety, is a weapon.

The first steps may be when a young boy is put through trials often unique to a Chapter, but it is when the first few organs are implanted that indoctrination in all aspects of the word can truly begin. Rods and cones are twisted and multiplied, allowing a Space Marine to see cleanly in the dark. An extra lung and heart are grafted in an enlarged and fused rib cage, stripping oxygen from water and poisoned air in equal measure, and hammering it through the massive body. Acid glands turns spit lethal, eroding everything up to steel, which his skin has been toughened to be stronger than that. Genetics are forcefully rewritten with pseudo-helixes which bind DNA to an arcanic force shared between all with a signature in the Warp.

_'An Astartes,'_ a masked god contemplates, _'in his entirety, is a puppet'._ Three dice bounce across the table, marking the chances to hit, wound, and mock a saving throw. Another goblin figurine crumbles away. _'The most difficult to master, yet the easiest to lead around once you do.'_

Mind, body and spirit. All bent to mimic their gene-fathers. All tools in the end, just as their Emperor is said to have only viewed his Primarch sons as a means to an end. In a hellish universe, perhaps being a caring father would have lead to even more deaths and stolen souls. Love, compassion, qualities only enjoyed by Astartes who understand this bitter truth instead of covering it up with religious zeal. Only for Space Marines who are gifted a return to their families, such as the Ultramarines and Salamanders, or are simply too stubborn to kneel before Inquisitorial might.

Space Wolves not withstanding.

But take a zealous mind, put it through centuries of bloodshed and shaken faith, and even the most devout Sister of Battle will break. Fiery dogma is ignorance that lasts a lifetime, but an Astartes has more than a century to live. When a guarded mind falls to temptation, it falls hard. Ironic as it is that a more open mind will find ways to cope, at least the faithful will not be swayed as easily to temptation.

No, not temptation. Depression. That is the first step Chaos takes to expose that back door of an Astartes genetics. Just as the Eldar are marked with Slaanesh's goblin-esque brand and damned to its gullet, just as the Blood Angel's genetics are imprinted with their beloved Primarch's death, a being as mighty as an Astartes needs their 'coding' to reflect a powerful spirit, leaving them with a glaring flaw to those wise enough to find it.

_'It is his indoctrination, you know,'_ the Jester half-lies. _'His instincts are still in play, regardless of what __**regretful**__ memories I waved away.'_ A flicking hand comes dangerously close to swatting the 'good' god's nose, who's cloaked head snaps back. The Jester's other hand poises over the table, fingers curling to represent pulling at the Astarte's spiritual strings. _'The **Truth** is,' _as he watches the more sadistic of the two gamers step back as well,_ 'his particular warrior feels as though he betrayed someone, despite acting like the good little tool that he is for his bloated and rotting Imperium. The fate of the zealous when beholding the fate of the reasonable. Observe!'_

At that moment a hapless adventurer did not take it to heart to flee. It is the broken High Gothic -that Dog-Latin dialect so unabashedly heavy that it might as well be Wolf-Latin- that the Astartes grunts which does not register with the admittedly Japanese themed language the Rhea's ears would normally understand. It is the oppressive aura still radiating off the demi-Human's body that has been known to make other mortals kneel and advert their gazes. It is the fact that massive fingers can almost wrap all the way around the Rhea's body in comical fashion, or at least comical to the Laughing God.

_'One called Truth who is merely a sadist, and one called Illusion who submissively enjoys giving false hope and watching the sadist break their will. Oh, I have heard my fair share of jokes, but this is truly a pathetic one. Children playing gods and thinking they have the right to be so subjective.' _The smaller one, Illusion, grasps at the Laughing God's hand, her aura pulsing in place of a voice, spiritually pleading to stop.

_'And now I see you all do have your favorites'_. The Laughing God smirks back, almost laughing at the weaker deity slowly realizing interfering could mean her demise as well. _'Ah, but why mock you both? It is much more satisfying to watch you squirm under cold truth. I will cast no illusion over my strain to keep him in check.'_ Down below the Rhea's wide, teary eyes find the equally wide and more-so wild eyes starring down. One more centimetre, one more twitch of those massive fingers, and a tiny heart would give up pumping through a constricted body.

In the end, to rework an Astarte's memories is no easy task to even a god of laughter. Spirits, souls and genetics are tied together in their hellish universe, binding mankind to their carrion lord just as a particular ancient race is damned to their ancestors' bastard creation. Faith is unshakable against another deity, not so much against one's fellow man. That truly is how chaotic forces work best, tricking an Astartes to rail against the Imperium through interactions with bloodthirsty governors and Inquisitors who fail to properly define why they see Chaos in everything.

It is not always some flesh-bound tome that sets a guardsman astray. Pull the right strings, have the precise artillery strike at the precise moment, push the commissar to execute a best friend to 'restore' morale, and everything will go according to plan when that same guardsman snaps and assassinates the commissar, starting a chain reaction to often unwitting agents in Chaos' name. Yes, an Astarte's mind should be a much harder wall to bring down, the Adeptus Sororitas are less likely to be influenced by its direct manipulations, but the same power that rebirths a man into a Space Marine is still based on the same power that comes deep from the Warp. When that wall breaks, it breaks hard.

Centuries of constant whispers, distrust from governing forces, power plays against Inquisitors who overstep their bounds yet begrudgingly do so due to what they see as an inevitability...

And one particular jester who finds parallels with the best joke being based on timing, pronunciation, location, and other fine details that may explain why the universe is such a great joke. Yes, eternal war is funny to him, but to be more subtle will make comparisons to a joke's structure and to a certain many-mouthed god's plans within plans to create the best outcome. Perhaps the simplest way to break an Astarte's mind is to merely wave one's gloved hand at the other two deities in the 'gaming' room and state that the Apothecaries and Librarians may have forged a mortal mind into a fortress, but like all programs built from 'third party' tools there will be a back door.

Of course, instinct remains intact.

_'Perhaps you should let go, before my gaming piece slips from my fingers and crushes your favored race. His instincts are quite the strain. I may have broken through **your** realm's back door, but the finest warrior to a much more powerful god is taxing me. Surely, you can understand how out of your league you both are if even I admit to power beyond even mine.'_

As though touching the flame, Illusion's hand jerks from the Jester's.

And before she can reach out, a six sided dice falls from his curled fingers.

_'Merely a means to represent how deadly this Astartes remains'_.

* * *

All at once part of the indoctrinated instinct is unleashed. The Rhea's shrieks are masked by the pulpy smack and crunch from the man's other fist. A charging hobgoblin's head twists, breaking its own puppeteering strings of sinew and a spinal cord. There is no chance for the mind to fade away. Darkness comes from the man's hand clasping over its face before its head explodes against the wall. Another shriek and crack comes from the Rhea's sudden free-fall and leg breaking on the ground.

High above reality, the Laughing God's fingers walk along the gaming board towards the breeding nest. The Astartes follows suit, dragging up more memories of these goblins from the now congealing brain coughed back onto the floor before the bloodshed began. He pays no heed to the smaller non-Human wailing at his feet, nor at another adventurer dashing back into the cave to drag the fallen comrade away. This way is towards the breeding chamber, as though enhanced hearing did not pick up on the Goblin Shaman screeching to get more green skinned bodies in the way.

The green skins thought to stop him. They now try to stall the intruder's bloodied march into their most prized trophy room, their confident laughter turning into desperate growls. His upper lip curls in disgust. They should seek to flee.

* * *

A dice lands on a three, as though there was any chance for a Goblin to withstand being stepped on by a near solid ton of sinew and ceramite hard bone. _'The chart says at least a two is required. And here I thought I had to influence him into that nest. Well, their little rapist minds are quite the instruction manual to this world. I suppose he has been **eating** a good book!'_ Unnecessarily brutal and needless overkill are clearly not part of the dictum, given another Goblin breaking the sound barrier from a kick to the chest. _'Oh, this is not the same set of rules? My apologies, I thought you two children would appreciate being shown a much more detailed game by one of your forerunners. You do enjoy me giving a hand, yes?'_ the jester muses, ignoring the other two deities bristle at the insult, and at a hobgoblin's figure suddenly missing an eye.

_'Perhaps we should give this more heart'._

And the figure's chest caves in.

_'It's all about expanding one's mind,'_ the jester laughs, splaying his arms wide, as the goblin's stone head breaks into an ever expanding sphere of dust.

_'You see, this is not some spoiled child upending the board because he lost. No, this is your elder calling you down from your little half-witted hobby and forcing you to play a game with the rest of the family. In fact, come! Come! Everyone enter!'_

Smaller deities flutter by the twisting hole in this room of fate. All ghostly apparitions, specific to a race or creed, none as tall and opaque as the two gamers. A Dwarven smith, a Lizard warrior, an Elven priestess. Timid footsteps lead them into a dwelling their auras have barely touched in some time. Symbolic dust drifts off their shoulders, the darkness swirling away from shining and metallic eyes. _'Come and meet the rest of your family!'_ this strange puppet god laughs, his arms splayed wide in greeting, although the comedian's beckoning is less for them.

So many small, child like deities. _'These are your older siblings, are they not?' _Frail, wary, whose eyes barely pass over the table's edge.

* * *

There should be no way something that large can move that quick! That... ogre! Yes, ogre? Human? Too big to be human... Too big! A sentry hiding in an alcove did not know what hit it, but the shaman does, the shaman sees it all too well. The intruder broke his stride long enough to kneel and punch into that shadowed crevice. Blood and stone still lashing through the air as the shaman turns to screech at a hobgoblin. This intruder, this **_demi-human_**, he leans to the side and spits out part of a goblin's brain, still stumbling from that ordeal, but the hobgoblin finds no easy prey.

Whatever had been holding the intruder back had clearly cast off the strings which held him down. Shattered ribs and twisted necks were being outnumbered by Goblins finding their waists far from their yellow eyes. Another hobgoblin has a final lesson in life, that a man's fist can indeed puncture its abdomen, tear through the diagram, and wrench out a still beating heart.

Mind-eater, brain-breaker, the shaman can hear his dark lord's essence filling in the sickening gaps. This man has devoured a goblin's head to learn from it. He knows their instincts, their urges, their potential numbers. The dark lord's spirit flares, something that is normally felt as a blessing, not as a warning. The sickened giant lashes out, much faster than any elven captive with a bow, a rapid three-shot burst. An unfocused blow to the head, a steadier one to the chest, and a focused one back to the skull.

A poisoned spear lances into the giant's side. The shaman has seen this before, would-be heroes appearing irritated at being ambushed so easily, but not with anyone's hide so thick. Not with someone's trickling blood congealing so quickly. The man snarls, brings the smaller goblin face to face before it even realizes there is a massive hand around its small torso, and spits.

Flesh, bone, it all sizzles. An eye foams out of the socket. The wiry screams are silenced with a wet smack, its body breaking against the cavern wall. The poison does not slow the heavy march up to the throne. The shaman snarls, hearing the shrill cries of goblin spawn mingling with the giant's mutterings. **"Orks."** A brave goblin, father to one of the spawn, leaps at the man's back and nearly twists in half from the backfist. **"GREEN SKINS."**

Something more felt than truly spoken floods the shaman's mind from the dark lord. '**Run'**. And the tribe's leader does just that, stealing a glance back at the butchering. Body of an ogre, chest and shoulders much too broad to be human, yet that glaring visage is just that. Demi-human, a slayer of goblins, but there are no clean kills. This is flat out butchery. Skulls are pulped by a titanic grip. A club wielding hobgoblin is shouldered into a wall. Two halves are throne to opposite sides. The shaman spins around just at the giant grips the hobgoblin's head and flinches from the almost immediate snap. Then there are the terrified captives, crying out when the butcher rounds the corner into their holding pen.

* * *

Truth and Illusion lean over the table, glaring at the diecast figure standing over an elf's gaming piece. The other deities finally approach the table, standing on tip toes to peer at the reason why the spiritual room seems to smell so much of greenskin blood.

_'They are not my mortal kin,'_ the Laughing God replies, smirking all the while. _'This one does annoy me. Another cute, underdeveloped copy of my mortal kin. Hmm, I could do it, you know.'_ His finger hooks on the one string keeping the Astartes from tearing another head off its shoulders. _'I could cleanse this world. There are just so many copies and parodies! So many tiresome realities! Being so tied to this game of yours, it would be almost cruel to upend it all.'_

The glare and annoyed stare from the two gods of this realm are not overlooked. The Jester smirks back and rolls his hand about. _'Am I not entitled to be a slave to my own existence and desires as well? Just look at me! I am merely the marionette!'_ It is easy to adjust his image into a wooden form, retaining the pale mask that is his face. _'A poor soul being lead on fate's strings!'_ Four digits tense around a six sided dice, the index pointing at a captive elf's figure in the cavern's corner. _'Being forced to play along with my own amusement and allowing such a powerful warrior to instinctively regard someone who is not human as a potential threat! Oh, these weak little spirits who think they know what rape is. Who think they can fathom a nihilistic universe. Who need to be taught that you two fools are weak imitations of my bastard kin in the Warp's four corners. Who-'_

Slender fingers slip over the Laughing God's hand, soft and silver against his wooden form. His head tilts, the shadows cast through the sharp corners of a puppet fading back into his preferred form. _'Well, don't you remind me of my sister.'_

A demure smile has no chance of stretching to the goddess' pointy ears. Green eyes snap up at Good and Evil stepping closer, and back to the Laughing God's hum. The Jester glances across her stola-baring shoulder, a reminder to the other two just who has power in this room. _'I suppose one should expect investigators when kicking down a barred door,'_ the Jester mutters, knowing full well the elven goddess' eyes would follow his to the glaring hole left by his forced entry. _'Hm. I do not recall inviting you in.' _He pats the elven goddess' head, who blinks back at him._ 'But you've always been here, haven't you? You made this one's spirit, didn't you?'_

* * *

The Astarte's mind sees the flickering memory of an Eldar. His fingers find where a biting collar almost blends with soft skin. That pounding override to keep from strangling this bastardized for of humanity is somehow... delicate. Pleading. As though... wishing him to be at peace. The killing is done. Do no more harm.

A Goblin suddenly bends over, clutching its chest and foaming at the mouth. The Astartes believes it to be a heart attack from fear. His gilded spirit does not feel the Jester's wrath, nor would he have the privilege of seeing a gloved hand smashing down on one of Truth's little toy Goblins. Throughout the entire world, every other mortal being shudders from the sick comedic reality of theirs experiencing an elder god's irritation made manifest to a gloved fist slamming on the gaming table.

* * *

_'Stealing their creations. Breaking toys that do not belong to you. Weeping and wailing until you got your way just to eat away at your sibling's identities. So very, **VERY**, much like a certain brother AND sister of_ mine.'

Slaanesh. Everyone in that room suddenly knows that name. Another elven god, marked as a warrior with combat's flames floating about his hands, suddenly drops to his knees and vomits.

The elven goddess quickly floats from the snarling Jester. He does not even wear a creepy grin, forgoing such poetic comedic expressions for a pure glare. '_Crossing **Goblinoids** with the **Daemonculaba**. I do hope none of you two thought to excuse this fetish as somehow being deeper than it really is.'_

The other deities of craftsmanship, love and the hunt stumble away from the table. Gods of lightning and war no longer feel so brave and defiant. It is one thing to be annoyed by Truth and Illusion's shenanigans, having their prides wounded by their meddling and bullying. It is another to have... That, whatever the Jester is, exposing more of his true self.

The universe's brutality is not comedic. Comedy is how one handle's this brutality. Most of the time.

The elven goddess quickly reaches for the elven captive's figurine. Wide, green eyes follow the Laughing God's march around the table. Other lesser deities float about and warily peer over the elven goddess taking a risk with remaining so close to this stranger who has all but upended the game board. She clasps the one piece which could be so easily shattered by another rogue fist.

_'Other spiritual parents to these mortal races,'_ the Jester observes, before giving the goddess a knowing glance, and the two stronger gods of fate a much harder stare. _'Playing with mortal spirits you did not create, and forcing the rightful rulers to watch and plead from the sidelines. My-my, I believe I understand you two much better now.'_

The Jester's fingers clench under the goddess' soft touch, burying away the dice roll which would have surely lead to a mortal elf's broken neck. **_'Cegorach'._** A taunting grin has Good and Evil tense, and the elven goddess blink in surprise. _'Oh, so much like demons, you little fools are. Giving one's true name leaves you open to control. Is that why these mortals do not share their names so easily? Have you both that much influence that your fear becomes their instinct?'_ The galactic Clown Prince steps away from the elven goddess' touch, following the two hooded gamers sudden retreat to the entrance. Both slam into a giant mask, nearly spearing themselves on the comedically long and pointed nose. _'Yes, you see it now, don't you? I give my true name, but you cannot kowtow me with it.'_

Both gods stumble back as the mask towers over them. The rest of Cegorach's body forms after it, with fists clenched and a powerful stride sending tremors through the room. 'Do_ you both understand what it means to have an actual __**GOD**__ in your realm now? _To_ behold the simple fact that you both have been so out-classed and out of touch with reality, playing keepers to a simple, ugly world'_. The god's porcelain mask twists into a snarling grin, just as the first weaker deity floats back to his shoulder. _'To quote the younger version of a wasted mind trapped on a golden throne, daddy's home.'_

* * *

The Dark Lord's thoughts hammer away at the Goblin Shaman. Auras flicker before the tribal leader's eyes, dictating where to run. Something has happened to the great game. Something has messed with the natural order of his kind taking pleasure in enslaving, cutting, gleefully rutting and mockingly stroking the swollen forms of chained captives. It is the Dark Lord's masters, yes? The gods above which have gifted them all such a wonderful game to play? This heretical thought is not met with a headache as punishment.

_**'RUN.'**_

The Goblin Shaman readily complies.

_**'ALL OF YOU. RUN.'**_

The green spellcaster stumbles, nearly toppling over a cliff's edge. Down below is the rest of the sprawling forest, and the scents of so many other tribes growing strong as the one he... used to have. Nostrils flare and his eyes narrow. The scents are moving. Wait, moving? Why are they-?

Oh.

Entrance guards. Scouts. Hobgoblins. Riders. A champion or two. Even the other Shamans in this area. He can see their shadows dancing against the trees. The Dark Lord is having them all flee.

This is no longer their game to play.

* * *

Truth and Illusion, cloaked and powerful, kneel and cover their heads. The laughing God no longer towers over them, having reverted back to a more acceptable height to casually pace around the table.

_'And to speak of fear and instinct...'_ Cegorach smiles at the elven goddess, who merely blinks and tilts her head at him. A pleasant smile is for her. A sadistic grin is for the Rhea-loving Illusion. _'Hypocrisy is amusing, and I do intend on playing favorites.'_

* * *

The elven captive kneeling in her chains lifts her head to a sensation rarely felt beyond communal prayers, that silvered and silent touch that gifted this land such beautiful nature. It is as though the shining originator of her own spirit has finally been allowed to enter this dark room, and over the giant's head there might as well have been a vision of a goddess finally smiling down at her. She no longer squirms against the massive fingers at her throat, not even flinching when the iron collar pulls apart with a metallic snap. A cynical snort still has her blink and tilt her head. The giant human is staring at the collar on his roughened palm, at the chains so comically small over his hand that they might as well be puppet strings.


	3. III

AN: July 15, 2020 - Removed the original third chapter, merged it into the second. Might revisit this chapter too.

* * *

**III**

**THOUGHT FOR THE DAY: **_There is no peace amongst the stars, only an eternity of carnage and slaughter, and the laughter of thirsting gods._

* * *

The difference between gods and demons largely depends on where one is standing at the time.

Colchisian words always ring true with men and monsters alike, to those bold and indifferent minds tangent to nihilistic wastes called vampires and annoyingly optimistic fools dubbed heroes. The Dark Lord had briefly gripped the realm, slipping his skeletal digits through his foolish predecessors crown, and reeled when something else laughed instead of Truth. Going from Dark Lord to Demon Lord, a 'god' over the non-prayers, means one's now immortal spirit can truly craft the world after their image, and he was so close to experiencing what a 'true' god feels like.

And then a jester stole his purposefully thorny crown.

The subtle difference between gods and demons? The former exists through prayer, gathering up its mortal children to rebirth them anew, and take a soul's life-long work to develop more mortal spirits. Plant the seeds, let them grow with power, harvest them with death's scythe, and feed off of that lifetime of power to expand one's influence. The later feeds off these spirits, both a slaver to vulnerable minds that goblins have violated and a slave to devouring lost souls to feed powers that cannot be self-created.

Parasites, all of them. If being a lord over demons is the only chance to become equal to Truth and Illusion, two identities surpassing these weaker gods, then so be it. The ends justifying the means excuses so many sins and hypocrisies to reach a state where one did not need to birth and collect mortals, nor become some horned parasite to prolong one's existence. Truth, Illusion, they were just like him once, two mortals who tasted another's soul as warlocks and became addicted, or so one theory goes. A blasphemous thought, perhaps, but are not demons allowed to blasphemy? Is not a demon's existence based around the unholy?

Then again, the less philosophical difference between gods and demon kings is still brutally subjective.

Just a few more sacrifices. Just a few more butchered men and broken women. Just a few more goblins born and scarred souls so easily plucked from the realm before their parent gods could find them, or another upstart Demon Lord could steal them first. Just so close to acquiring everything he needed, and then the laughter began.

Somewhere, in some far off reality, there is a caped crusader that knows a similar, disturbing laugh.

The visions given from their new dark master still has the migrating Goblin Shamans wince and snarl. _'Would you like to see how they got these scars?'_ that damned Jester mask articulates, before lifting the two rule-makers up in front of it. Then their hoods fall back, and impossible faces from a higher dimension appear so bloodied and broken, and the laughter that drowns out their screams brings an all too mortal chill to their little spines. Did their dark master feel the same? Possibly, he is still bound to their mortal plane, not that they would hold it against him.

"This close," a Shaman from an abandoned fortress growls out, having lived so long as to be gifted speech. He marches up to the cliff's edge overlooking the woods. "This close to having our own god!" His balled fist slams on a crossed leg. "This close! And not just a god, but a rule maker!"

Several younger Shamans and Champions flinch. The distant flames against the dark horizon seem much more important stare at, or even at the Cavern Shaman twitching and mumbling from his seat. "What do you think he's seeing?" one small Shaman, unlucky enough to have settled in a ravine, dares to inquire.

The elder Fortress Shaman levels his one good goat-like pupil on the meditating Cavern Shaman and snorts. "He speaks to our lord."

"He survived the Mind-Eater," reminds a Champion from the neighboring swamp. Massive arms cross and a sharp glance quiets the growling Fortress Shaman. "He has seen this behemoth and lived. Our lord commanded him to flee," he adds, silencing a potential retort from Fortress Shaman concerning cowardliness. "We all were commanded to flee."

Fortress Shaman huffs and rubs at his scarred eye. "Just another adventurer. We should be out breeding." He sniffs. "It's the Elves fertile season. We should be claiming bellies, not just... sitting here! Look!" His knees pop while kneeling, and a blackened nail digs into the earth, drawing rough outlines where the arboreal race dwells. "Elven towns, here and here. Villages, here. And the capital, out there! So close we could just take them!"

Swamp Champion leans over, drawing out several vertical lines. "And the behemoth continues to cut his paths, here." He sits back against a nearby stone, with arms crossed and fingers drumming. "The other tribes that have not listened are being cut down as we speak. Mark my words," as he looks back at the distant flames, "this is no mere Slayer."

"Then let's cut here!" Fortress Shaman's wrist flicks left to right, along the imagined path around the area's mountain strip. "Back to the mountains! No adventurer ever thinks we would go back to old dwellings!"

"We would be slaughtered," a Shaman from the mithril mines whispers, turning his large and unblinking eyes onto Forest Shaman. "We all saw the vision. Gods did not send the Goblin Slayer. They sent this one."

Cavern Shaman's ramblings flare, his tongue twisting over words a bit too foreign to this world's language. "I-Ivero, hai? Ita'vero."

"We sit and listen to this so-called prophet concerning some oversized Human!" Fortress Shaman snaps, pointing a bony finger at Cavern Shaman. "We should be expanding our numbers! Give the dark lord an army! Look at us, so many here that we could take the Elves easily!" His fist clenches and shakes.

"Listen to the woods," Mithril Shaman chants. "There." His hand flicks, rattling several Elf-craft bracelets along his arm. "The goddess speaks."

Swamp Champion's brooding eyebrow lifts. "Speaks?"

Mithril Shaman nods rapidly, the piercings in his ears jingling. "Her voice, it flutters through the air," with a rapidly waving hand. "It empowers her children!"

Ravine Shaman blinks. "What does-"

"The Elven Goddess," Swamp Champion explains. "That means she's no longer following the rules."

"There are no rules," Mithril Shaman murmurs. "Gone. All gone. New rules are coming."

The warbling, half-garbled tongue of the Goblin language is all one might here next to protests and debates at the cliff's edge, until all fall silent with the meditation's resolve. Cavern Shaman's tiny feet barely make a sound, and it is his clearing throat that gets their attention. "Yameru." The other tribal leaders blink and glance at each other. Truly, the Dark Lord has blessed this Goblin for him to articulate the world's language.

"Enough." He eyes the etching between Swamp Champion and Fortress Shaman, and presses the butt of his staff into it. "I have seen where the laughter's minion travels. Here."

Ravine Shaman leans over and blinks. "Where Mokele Mubenbe fell?"

"Where the other Champion went off to," Fortress Shaman hums while thoughtfully rubbing his chin. "Too bad you didn't follow, eh?" His smirk dies, seeing the Swamp Champion heavily sigh in relief, as though just narrowly escaping death.

"You two," Cavern Shaman calls over Ravine Shaman, pointing at Fortress Shaman and Swamp Champion. "Take your tribes to the west. We will lay into their farms while it is distracted. You two," back to Ravine Shaman and the ornate Mithril Shaman, "bring your tribe south. Adventurers come this way. Teach your scouts how to capture and breed from stronger stock."

Fortress Shaman smirks and backhands Swamp Champion's knee. "See? We get to plow the fields." He nods at Cavern Shaman. "I like this new prophet."

Swamp Champion merely grunts and rises, giving the etched out map a wary glance before plodding off into the forest.

With Ravine Shaman following suit, Cavern Shaman allows a prideful smirk. Yes, they will grow and swallow up this new 'demon' of their's. "Do you know what the difference between gods and demons are?" he begins, giving Mithril Shaman a sidelong glance. "Just like the Dark Lord says, it all depends on-"

That smirk no longer feels so confident. Mithril Shaman's wide eyes are sizing up the map etched in the earth. Hmm, strange, like a pointy nose and round head, it's just like the side view of a-

"-is no Goblin's head," cut Mithril Shaman's words through his contemplation. "There's a difference." His head slowly shakes. "They are not the same."

Mithril Shaman's parting words are not acknowledged. Cavern Shaman's jaw clenches, his nails digging into his ornamented staff, when he spots the rectangles marking where the behemoth had rampaged. Those are comical teeth. Where his staff left a mark, a soulless eye. His shoulders hunch, and a quick glance over his shoulder tries to discern if there is anything in the sky. The red moon does seem a bit brighter than the green, nothing more. Well, that happens from time to time, right? Yes, he's been underground for too long to care about the sky. The ground, however...

A few sharp kicks toss dirt over the map, silencing the humored sensation that he had been watched

* * *

Grey eyes are not entirely uncommon throughout humanity. A quick glance often writes them off as simply being blue, that it is the lighting affecting how they appear. An Astarte's eyes are often amplified through their altered genetics, ranging from brilliant gemstones to cold, hard steel. _'You have kind eyes.'_ Did he? Was that him in that flickering memory? Instinct hammers back, it does not matter, duty matters most. His eyes are most certainly not kind, breaking through the darkness as metallic orbs leading him to retribution.

His retribution, _their_ retribution, possibly both. They all recognize their time is at hand. Several gold eyes snap up at the nigh-silver gaze cutting through the shadows. Long noses and bulbous nostrils flare at the _'almost'_ Human scent. He has no desire to camouflage himself, to bathe in their blood and close his eyes until the last moment. Thunderous footfalls announce it well to the scouts cowering in the crevices. Unmerciful metal is worn openly in the dark, proclaiming louder than his heels beating a battle drum's rhythm. He is proud to live. He is proud to die.

These little monsters do not feel the later.

The first three Goblins have no chance to sound the alarm. He fulfills their obligations, by hurtling their broken bodies into the main chamber. Soft whimpers and a guttural yet strangely articulate voice made it the prime target for his aim.

A pleading Elven captive, not yet broken by the nest, feels the Shaman's stolen dagger leave her back before it can start carving a crude attempt at a name. Said Shaman has noticed all too well the bodies tumbling and writing their own eulogies with splattering blood drops. The captive winces at the Shaman's growls commands to the same Hobgoblin that dragged her away from the nearby village, and dares to steal a glance at the towering muscle stepping around the corner to investigate. It takes a few seconds for it to catch up to her that the Hobgoblin's head should not be facing the other way.

* * *

The greatest mistake the Goblin Shaman makes is not that it hesitates, nor that it is found so close to brutalizing another soul. It speaks, loud and clear, damning its kind all the more than even before. Knowledge is power, it should have guarded that well. Without inhibition from a previous life's personality, the Astartes' training twists at the connection between stomach and spine. It cannot even bite down when the massive hand clamps over its jaw, grips the back of its head, and squeezes. First the jaw gives, popping from its socket and tearing sinew from bone. Then the teeth are pushed and cracked free, adding to the pooling blood in its palette. Yellow eyes still work, halfway between confusion and horror when everything else goes numb. As its spirit tumbles into the dark, screeching for the Dark Lord to catch it, to keep in from sinking into that green muck of nothingness its consciousness first came from, it catches a brief glimpse of the behemoth's aura.

Golden fire. An angry, two-headed falcon shaped by a roaring, holy inferno. Holy should not feel this... vengeful! And trailing from it are silver strings, the same color attributed to more Elven spirits, leading up to a gloved hand and a porcelain mask. A split second of clarity through blinding terror has it grasp at one of the strings, trying to anchor itself away from the green miasma. Enraged flames lash out, and all at once the Astarte's mind becomes known.

He has never cried out _'Itai!'_ over a wound like the Elven captive did when the Hobgoblin twisted her arm.

He has never begged _'Gomen nasai!'_ over fallen comrades as the woman did while kneeling over her friend's shattered corpse.

He has, however, roared in defiance,** -PURGA XENOS!-**

That ire directs into the spirit's limbs, cutting and scalding at its very existence for DARING to intrude in the Astarte's mind. **-PURGE! PURGE!-** The Goblin's spirit screams the same phrases the Elf did to it, begging for the pointy-nosed mask's salvation where his Dark Lord remains silent. The wild-eyed deity grins at the holy rage wiping a terrified spirit from existence, and responds in a way most befit of his millennia old existence.

If there is a difference between gods and demons, psychotic laughter might not be it.

* * *

Green flesh and inhuman bone is an overripe fruit in his hand. A yellow eyeball slips through his fingers and bounces messily at his feet. His own steel gaze barely sees through the golden fury pouring its molten ichor through his blood and spirit. This... abhuman, xenos... _'No!'_ something laughs at the back of his mind, drawing out more unnecessary memories. This _'woman'_ peers up at him with wild amazement, whose strangely long ears twitch at life giving breath _**thundering** _in his lungs. He was not there to be the bulwark against her terror, only to give some sense of retribution with the deceased father's skull dripping between his fingers.

His bare limbs are mighty sledgehammers forged by a now forgotten eternal war. Her naked arms are bruised and frail, unconsciously slipping across the bulge at her middle. There are more just like her, with a foresty scent from the waist up and _'greenskin'_ the rest of the way down. The strings gripping his identity vibrate, pointing him towards the cavern entrance. The first mind he devoured laughs out its ugly memories and gloats that the only time so few hellspawn would be found in a cave is if they are new, or the majority gathered to raid a nearby village.

The brief laughter in his mind whispers a single, damning word forever marked into the twisting genetics and spirit binding him to his own _'true'_ father, and the golden inferno burns through his throat as an ear-splitting roar.

**_'Daemonculaba.'_**

Even twisted, brain-dead criminals dragging along steel cables for arms pale against an unhinged Astartes.

* * *

As a child, Forest Princess watched the woods burn. The paintings in her personal village's temple always made it seem like the flames would simply shoot straight up and cling in place, as though laying claim like some invasive warlord. It had been a warm day that year, and at first it seemed like the caretakers were alarmed over how many falcons suddenly took to the sky. Then came the trailing smoke, and her child self impatiently stamping her foot and stating some jerk started a campfire, mimicking the elders who always told her that fire is not an Elven matter. After that remains a haze of adults passing her between themselves up the stone mountain where it would be safe, and her indignation at being manhandled being swept away by so many animals darting out of the forest alongside the Elven guards.

It seemed just like how sunset felt, where all at once it became too dark for a _non_-Elf to see. The smoke grew thick, and suddenly she could see the flames, and she looks to her caretaker and back at the forest and suddenly she sees so much orange. Green leaves, half-dried and so ugly-feeling between her fingers, rolled out where the flames overtook her first home. Green was never supposed to feel like that. Autumn leaves should, but not spring and summer leaves. Still wet and making that annoying crackling sound, like some tiny version of wood being stripped. She steals a glance at the tapestry, the only one left on the temple's shattered walls, and back through the golden barrier barely masking the fires burning away at rooftops.

She sits on hands and knees, blinking at the surreal environment. That would be a handmaiden's pleas right outside the twin doors hanging halfway off their hinges. A man shouting and then screaming with a blade in his back, that would be the handmaiden's husband. A good archer too, right? The green, ugly wave that rolled out of the hills must have missed her when they began dragging the women away. Her sister was right to follow after that one Human. Goblin Slayer, he would have spotted the cave and told them all to close it up. The Elven thing to do is both to laugh at the Dwarves that cannot see deep into the woods, and then at the Humans who dare give them advice.

When seeking salvation from one's foes, pray to angels associated with death. Do not pray for their souls and do not simply whimper to be saved. Where there is only war, deliverence comes from vengeance. All the great Earth Mother bestows is a shield. It cracks and flickers against so many spears, knives and blackened nails. The young Elven Priest pants through clenched teeth, his one un-bloodied arm trembling to keep his staff aloft. What remains of his Princess' honor guard crowds around the Elven temple's broken pedestal, hastily wiping at blades and pulling gauss tight around their limbs. The Priest's chants of, "Take them back to hell, take them back to hell," have started to match the inferno raging over the village's rooftops. Too few remain to chastise him for saying something so un-Elf-like. Too few still scream outside.

"Promise me," a Bard whimpers right behind Forest Princess, still clutching her splintered harp. "Promise you'll... right here," pointing at her neck. "Promise me. Don't let them-."

A Spearman's palms squeak from nervous sweat and a tight grip around his chosen weapon. "Damn it." The headband keeping back his long blue hair no longer blocks the perspiration from his eyes.

"Be brave," a Summer Sorceress whispers, still kneeling to bind her wounded thigh, keeping her head bowed against the scrapes and sickening giggles just past the golden barrier.

The ground shudders. A house wall crumbles under the enflamed roof. The Goblins shout even louder outside, drowning out a new wave of terrified wails.

"Take them all," Elven Priest breaths, focusing on the goat-like eyes and slobbering maws instead of the dagger puncturing close to his head.

Another tremor. More cries. The shield's calm and smooth surface flares with the sharp and angry edges of several hexagons. A Goblin Champion's meaty hand presses down, tapping a claw right over the Forest Princess' head. _'That one,'_ he snarls in that primal, Goblin language. _'Mine!'_

Forest Princess slowly gazes up at the looming body, eyes painfully tilted to avoid looking at the less than effective loincloth. The hand on her shoulder, that would be the Spearman, and of course he would be snarling defiantly up at the grinning leader. A tear rolls down her cheek, then another, and suddenly trying to look up blurs her vision. "Such an ugly thing," she whispers at the bearded jaw and pointy nose looming over her.

"My Princess," Elven Spearman shamefully growls. "Stay behind me."

Forest Princess' head tilts. "He won't find me, will he?" She looks back at the Spearman. "My husband. He's out hunting, you know."

The young Priest grunts and grabs his wrist. Another crack in the shield echoes back and splits his palm. His trembling arms tense from Sorceress grip, and his ear twitches from her soft whispery incantations urging the barrier to hold on. "Take them all," he breaths.

"Inevitable," comes the Goblin Champion's voice clean through the breaks. Shadows play over the wall behind him, where a severed head is swung by golden locks, and a villager's back arches through the ugly little bodies crowding her.

"-back to hell!"

And what is left of the temple's double doors explodes.

* * *

Far away in Water Town, a certain Archbishop bolts upright in bed. Fingers dig into sweat soaked bedsheets, spreading creases wide as though falcon wings. The nightmare came, as it always did, but this time the laughter was not from the monsters in her dreams. Those Goblins were scrambling over her to get away from the chilling laughter and screaming when fire swept through the cave. Earth Mother feels love, the Supreme God benevolence, but this holy sensation that washed over her dream-state's prone form and burned the Goblins to ash was neither of those two emotions.

Whatever stood over her, with its teardrop eyes turned in anger, and metallic maw stretching in rage, did not bring a cold aura she would have normally associated with the Angel of Death, and chanted in the same language of the Supreme God. Goblin Slayer would protect her in her dreams. This... thing, this _'Angel'_ that proved there could be such an emotion as _'holy'_ ire, starred through her at the Goblins she always sensed deeper in the cave. The Supreme God was never to be defiled with such rage filled words, especially in the holy tongue, and yet it nonetheless thundered in her mind.

**-I HAVE COME TO DESTROY YOU.-**

* * *

Who was that runty Shaman to tell -him- not to break off? His tribe is the mightiest from conquest! His gut the healthiest from so much loot! Every Goblin here came from some Elven whore, and he from a rare, Elven Swordswoman! The wisest, the strongest, and now the best! His tribe is the best, the strongest, and they were all made to win every fight, loot every village, and claim every woman! An unstoppable behemoth? Some half-giant that breaks iron swords in his hand like mere sticks? Even that Goblin Slayer's stories are not as exaggerated! "Let it be known!" he shouts, splaying his arms wide at the cheering tribe, "that I am Forest Champion, conqueror of the Elves!"

The cheering Goblins and screaming maidens drown out the Elven Priest's curse. At least it _sounds_ like the underlings cheer. It must be some statue toppling outside that has unsettled a few scouts. Pathetic fools, but no matter. He turns back around, lifting a fist over the golden shield, ignoring a second heavy thud and more terrified wails. _-"to hell!"_ he hears, and the thuds hammer closer to the half-dislodged doors. The Goblin Champion glances over a broad shoulder just in time to witness the heavy barricade's remains swing wild and free, pulverizing a Goblin's head before it even knows what hit it.

The Goblin Champion's quirked eyebrow is much easier to spot than his clenched jaw. "Oh?" he attempts to muse, "and who is-"

There is no heroic pause. Thundering footsteps hearken back to Raptors and Lightning-bolts, when mindless rage won out against Psyker beasts and poorly understood superweapons left from a Dark Age. Ill-tested chemicals and thrice as hard muscle is all that separates these predecessors from the berzerking Astartes. Faith saves body and soul, and perhaps the Goblin Champion of the Elven Forests understands that a bit more, albeit much to late to be more than hindsight dancing back to the Cavern Shaman's warning. He should have had faith in the new prophet's words. He now has a split second to recollect that wide-eyed Mithril Shaman poetically gesturing up at him.

_'Your strength will not save you.'_

Floorboards splinter under solid ton muscle barreling down.

_'His body is not natural to this realm.'_

Metal discs with blackened pits decorate the ribs.

_'He has come!'_

Goblin Champions and Ogres have broad shoulders like that.

_'He sees us!'_

Not humans.

_'Those who see witness his face-'_

Sharp angles, blocky, no soft features and large eyes a prayer-character would have.

_'-will not live to tell the tale.'_

Sharp angles, almost Human, and yet far too blocky.

Hulking shoulders pivoting into a blur registers as a warning to lift his green arms. A heavy dullness in his forearm marks that brief second before pain catches up, the sacrificed limb sparring his jaw from cracking like his ribs. Steel eyes bare down and keep over his yellow stare, even as his shoulders break through the golden barrier. Bodies roll and scramble all around him, that one with the spear dragging that wide-eyed Whore-Princess away. A hand clamps down, blocking his view and readying his head to be snapped sidelong from an unopposed haymaker.

"-Off!" the Goblin Champion snarls, swinging blindly. He winces, hearing fingers pop and feeling the forearm's bruise clench. Blessed be the Dark Lord, no, Demon Lord, for guiding his fist and freeing that unnatural weight off his torso. "How _dare..._" he snarls, and rolls to his knees. Half his vision blurs, and gentle prodding finds tender and puffing flesh where there had once been an eye, but he can still see her, that Forest Princess whore, being carried backwards by that Spearman. Yes, look at him, be afraid, especially that Priest being cradled in that Summer Sorceress' arms, those two pointy eared -GITS- that defied his conquest. "How **DARE-**"

They seem to be looking elsewhere. Why is...? Oh.

His head swivels around just in time to snap back, teeth cracking from the knee lifting him off the ground. There is no room to flee, let alone stumble. Shoulders brace against the temple's wall, presenting his front as the anvil to enraged hammer-blows. Another rib gives. Something tears where his liver might be. The other eye blurs. His head snaps. Cheek meets shoulder. Can't breath. Move. Can't breath. Can't see. Arm, move it. Can't feel. Legs buckle. A hand braces against the wall and his head snaps again. His knees hit the ground. Another snap. Strange, a shattered jaw sounds like the Elven pottery he smashed, but inside him, so close to his ear. Are these tears? Is this what a captive feels?

_"Stop." _No. _"Hurts!"_ Good.

A pity the last Goblin Shaman's mind was not devoured. The muffled, _"Itai"_ bubbling from green lips might have not seemed like a broken monster's breathing. The behemoth's body pressing against his back, he wanted the Forest Princess to feel that. The hand reaching around and gripping his shoulder, maybe that too. The vice grip of a muscled arm just under his jaw, not that. The hellish roar from behind does not drown out hearing so many little snaps and wet pops from his throat stretching.

* * *

Forest Princess sees and hears their confusion, as they glance at each other and mutter between the still burning homes. The Goblins outside hoist their crude weapons and crawl off of the survivors, taking trepid steps towards her and the other three temple survivors. She stands tall, fists clenched, and glances at the form plodding towards the broken doors. Her ears twitch at the Goblins realizing what just happened to their leader when an eight foot tall warrior, dressed no more than they, steps out under the stars and flames.

Elven men clutching at broken and severed limbs briefly forget their pain. Elven women focus on something other than nude and defiled bodies. All stand, thankfully whispering that the Forest Princess still lives in purity, and then what is and is not Human blocks their view. Blue, green, red, and all sorts of colored eyes rise with the Goblin Champion's head held in an outstretched hand. The Astartes does not see them. He holds this offering to the gods of war, breathes deep, and prays in that classically primal and vengeful way.

Commandos that hunt Yautja know that roar all too well.

* * *

Miles away Sword Maiden traces rectangles and not-quite ovals across a scroll, searching for the vengeful chant that shook her from slumber. Where her finger unconsciously taps the High Elf capital, Cavern Shaman's foot grinds away his own map and paths etched in the earth, his figure seeming to warily peer up at the foreboding pale mask hovering above. Winding the bend between the Elven capital and an outside village, Forest Shaman shudders and Swamp Champion frowns at the roar echoing through the trees. And further beyond that, the Goddess of Elves splays her small, silver fingers across her own newly gifted map.

Peaceful silver brings goodwill to the healthy green, her dancing digits matching the festive steps of her mortal children. There are broken souls to be recast, brought back as guardians of the forests, or maybe even reborn as future mighty heroes from the 'interactions' of so many young Elven couples. She smiles, hearing dice likewise dance under her fingers, favoring the demise of yet another Goblin tribe.

Nearby, the Jester's fingers curl instead of flutter. A steel-grey model with steel-grey eyes begins to move much faster than any of the horses favored by Humans. One hand rests over his eyes, not that he needed to actually see what the Astartes accomplishes, nor stare that that paranoid prophet being reminded that their Dark Lord might not save them, and a biting laugh rises into a mad, psychotic cackle.

The Elven Goddess's smile breaks into a toothy grin, and with a flick of her head a harlequin's cap is summoned on top, its grey and green bells jingling in rhythm with the dice dancing about.


	4. IV

**IV**

**THOUGHT FOR THE DAY:** _An open mind is like a fortress with its gates unbarred and unguarded._

* * *

Brain matter and bile splatter from acidic spit. The demi-Human hawks again, cleaning out his burning palette, and buries his head in an open hand. Bypassing an articulate Goblin Shaman for a highly intelligent Goblin Champion sits poorly in his gullet. Whoever believed these larger greenskins to be dimwitted failed to recognize details involving Goblin Champions reacting to adventuring parties shouting out commands. That, or selective breeding with Elves influences their ability to identify and replicate speech. Regardless, there are those who mistaken Orks as simple minded brutes. They all suffer hindsight's wrath, and suffering now through a rare act that can make an Astartes ill is a small price to pay to avoid the grave.

Teeth clench and a steady breath quells the dry heaves flexing his throat. Something dances at the memories, some shadowed figure likening itself to a Demon Lord, and the slowly forming language in his mind picks up a command to boost intelligence for the sake of cutting down some Slayer. Now... that is interesting. Evidently this Dark Lord had been picking up the pieces from some other predecessor, much to the Goblin Champion's annoyance at trading one master for another, and drove these hordes into a breeding frenzy to swamp a single mortal Human. Intelligent Nobz- no, _Goblin Champions_, means this leader picked up on wiser minions adapt faster than brute strength. All to take on this... boogeyman? No, that is the Champion's memory. This Goblin Slayer knew how to deal with these greenskins through ways limited to mortals. Evidently, this leader never planned for someone with **far **fewer restrictions.

...until now.

His hand lowers, exposing a frown that stretches the scar through his eyebrow. Bits and pieces were almost discarded as unimportant until he found a strong enough pattern to string them together into one frayed memory. There had been a conversation. Greenskins all look the same to careless mortals, but his sharp mental eyes pick up on minute details ranging from pours across their noses to different bones harvested for a Shaman's staff. And that Shaman preaching in the memory to some gathering is one he saw before. The Goblin Champion had mockingly pictured some lumbering ape with screws embedded in its chest snarling in the woods at the Shaman's description, that much he tosses aside as entertainingly insulting, and retraces the exchanged words with this world's language. Translate a bit here, add in the Goblin's emotions and pictorial thoughts there, and a clear description of plugs to the Black Carapace and blood dripping from massive fists is a mirror being held up before him.

The Astartes shifts, one hand to one knee and an elbow braced over the other, glaring at and through the puddled brain matter. They know he exists and that is good, for cowards always hide themselves. More than that, they all know about the one-sided battles and are smart enough to spread out and flee. Showing enough intelligence to regroup is concerning. That one Goblin Shaman attempted to redouble breeding efforts at the forest's edge and beyond, clearly instructing all of them to avoid his location. The Goblin Champion scoffed, took his tribe into the capital as part of some original plan to break the High Elf spirit and send ripples back to the Goblin Slayer's party, and now several hundred Goblins are being scooped up and dumped into a ravine. They were wise to avoid him, last night's rampage cemented that wisdom, and if they know both his existence and have a slaughtered tribe to reinforce keeping a hundred acre berth around his location... He snorts and sits further back on the broken boulder turned into an impromptu brooding throne. They are wise enough to avoid him, which means they are wise enough to make plans, and only a fool thinks himself forever invincible against Orks.

No, wait, Goblins. Orks spring from spores and necessitate scorching everything with flamers and meltas. These Goblins capture women to be used as hosts. Like invasive Tyranids, another distant memory prickling at what used to be his identity. Or the _**Daemo-**_

_'Stop!'_

He blinks. Was that him? He did not even hear stone cracking under his enraged fist. Best not to think on _**THAT**_ experiment still haunting so many minds. ...whatever that experiment had been, and who exactly conducted it. Yet another hellish event wrote itself to genetic memory for all current and future Angels of Death. Then there is the matter concerning those xenos-

_'Elves!'_

-pointy eared-

_'Elves!'_

...Elves.

_'People!'_

...people, scouring the woods, smoking out any remaining Goblin Scouts, and attempting to find the roaring behemoth that tore the head off their leader's would-be rapist.

_'Human! You are Human!'_

The Astartes blinks. He is Human?

_'Yes!'_

Then comes the memories where wise men from different Chapters offer clarity. Pale and dark, bald and bearded, stone eyes and burning irises, all great men and at times greater than he, who speak the same philosophy no matter their iconography. Miles from where the High Elves look for this gloriously vengeful dryad, the demi-Human stretches himself along the flat cavern floor, pulls his arms close to socket-marked ribs as one does on a humbling bed, and stares dead on at the ceiling until sleep's four hours comfort him. The memories flutter until then, and he decides his past self must have felt the same way at one point. He is not quite Human. That is not a depressing thought as he had been made superior to them. The physical yet arcanic seed thrumming in a massive chest ties an Astartes to true demi-gods. His jaw clenches when realizing it is that sense of superiority which couples so well with shame.

So-called monsters strive thanklessly to be called Human once more.

Demi-gods need to be humbled to think themselves Human ever again.

And the humbled man lying on a stone floor is still more comfortable than the real monster's skull rotting separately from its half-digested brain, and less so than the long tan ears gleefully twitching at this discovery.

* * *

The fires die, as they always do, and once more it is the High Elves that appreciate why orange is to be feared. All about the forest priests go about their duties, healing limbs back onto stumps and summoning out and purging unwanted spawn from tender bodies, as High Elves are capable of, and kneeling before a grey effigy hastily cut by desperate stonemasons. Not all blessings the elves receive have pointed ears, and is not grey similar enough to the goddess' silver touch? Hauling out an eight foot tall granite block is normally seen as a bit Dwarven, but who are they but High Elves who recognize the importance of making exceptions? Where there had been an entrance is now a stone statue, and where there had been the temple walls now rests several dozen High Elves on their knees, clutching their hands and bowing their heads in reverence.

A large pit dug into the foundation still smolders behind the statue, stacked high with Goblin bodies. To and fro Elven Dancers weave, half nude and glistening from silver paint, dumping crate after crate of incense and herbs to do more than block out the scent. One falls to his knees, letting his head lull sideways to wave a laugh about, and turns bloodshot eyes across to the temple's remnants.

High Elf Spearman stands bare-chested before the statue, adverting his gaze just as he did when the behemoth approached and washed them with his oppressive yet holy aura. Several hooded clerics dip their fingers in paint vials and slowly trace silver rings about his thighs, arms and ribs. The goddess' silver blessing has returned to the woods, and with it a steel-eyed savior in their most dire time. This man with an Ogre's body and a Human's head charged through the flames as a vengeful dryad, and while vanity (and some remaining sanity) keeps them from cutting their long ears at least they can honor this arboreal demi-god with painted sigils representing his body's metal discs.

Summer Sorceress approaches, lowering her eyes as well before the statue. High Elf Priest kneels at her side, steadily drawing upon her limbs with the same hands that shook so violently with the golden shield the night before. Whereas the High Elf men brandish these circles along their ribs, the women have them drawn upon their abdomens, treating them as safeguarding runes against future Goblin pregnancies. Neither she nor the Priest blush at this intimacy, being far too busy whispering their forest prayers.

All bow their heads at Forest Princess' arrival. Traditional robes have been replaced with silver threads. No hood guards her, all the better to brandish the silver circle painted on her forehead. The personal entourage of those wielding spears and bows stand close by, all half-nude like the statue represents, save for the still modest Forest Princess leaving their numbers to approach Spearman and Sorceress. Where all bow their heads, her's is held up high as the only one who could stand gazing through the vengeful aura. Her arms stretch, toes balancing on the tips, to reach up to the statue's outstretched hand and gift it with a Goblin's severed head.

"Our Mother Goddess returns." Both arms stretch, reaching palms still wet with Goblin blood up at the visage roaring skyward. "And we offer to her vengeful dryad his enemy's skull. May he hold it high in his bloodied hand."

The cold statue glares past the severed head's splayed eyes, immune to the smoldering pit creating _high_ Elves, as the silent observer to the dark skinned spy coughing in the woods.

* * *

Far above, Elven Mother Goddess snaps her head away from the gaming table, jingling the jester cap's bells, and narrows her eyes at a particular Laughing God appearing just a wee bit too innocent by focusing on a hovering rulebook and tweezing out a few pink threads from its arcanic pages. Dwarven War God tries reaching out to poke the Forest Princess figure. She makes his hand jerk back without even looking, slapping it hard enough to put out the flames normally dancing along his knuckles.

Now, then. Back to the table. Absolutely stoning the ever living hell out of her mortal children does not sit well with maternal instincts. The herbs now growing through the woods _strangely_ look like jester caps, and her's is not the only one present at the table. And here the Laughing God seemed like the sort of fellow who would have more restraint at manipulating the world than Truth and Illusion did. Although, it does seem to help her original plan. High Elves clung to the forests she once grew in her little garden. They should be dwelling comfortably and effortlessly in more oak refuges. Instead, someone decided to rewrite them into being a bit too pretentious for even her tastes. An Elf is an Elf, after all, there will always be superiority issues, but without her complete arboreal guidance they all became... smug.

_'Wood Elves, that has a nice ring to it, no?'_

Elven Goddess smirks over a shoulder at the Laughing God.

_'Please forgive my manipulations. At least I'm helping you reach your original idea. And, you know, sprinkle in a few spicy details.'_

She waves off Cegorach's fingers grinding over the map, no doubt seeding more Jester Toxins into the soil. Best not to get her mortal children addicted to laughter. Amazonian rangers and twirling jesters, good. Loony junkies with the munchies, bad. Dwarven War God and Human Poetry God both seemed to agree, desperately flexing their bellows and dusting with their quills to push the herbs out from their regained domains. Dwarven Fertility Goddess did not seem to mind, or more aptly Dwarven Heavily Accented Pajama-Hating, Cally-Breek-Tattie Bashing, Married to that Plookie-Scooner War God, Goddess. The same one now hefting a kettle thrice her size onto the table and seeing if these Jester Toxins can be brewed into the best Gether-Uping-Blate-Maw Ball-Droppin' Brew there ever was.

Provided someone move that Dingle-Dilly-Dullar-Dolt-Duncecap of a figure off the table!

Dwarven War God clamps a hand over his wife's mouth and waves off the Laughing God's perked eyebrow.

_'Oh, do go on. It is admittedly entertaining listening to someone who had been kicked out of her realm by two shut ins.'_ Cegorach rests an elbow to one hand, flicking a finger to and fro. _'Do I need to add more hawkish **Truth **to counter this peckish **Illusion**?'_ No one dares to look at where both former rulemakers used to stand. _'Let's forgo humor for a moment, shall we? As it stands, their little Demon Lord is still safe and sound in whatever 'citadel of miniatures' he calls home, and sadly none of us here are the sorts of gods who can walk freely in the mortal realm. So!'_ He taps the Astartes figure, distracting the others while grinding one of the pink threads under a heel. _'Until we, or rather I, can figure out every little secret Truth and Illusion left, this rulebook still remains in play. And our little bio-borg puppet will continue to hunt down this Demon Lord's minions until we can properly see all of these so-called non-prayer characters.'_

The plethora of deities gathered around the table glance at one another. Elven Goddess glances up from pinching at an Elven figure's bloated middle, drawing out the Goblin essence as a blessing. Simply put, her eyes read, the more powerful entities in the mortal world had special rules to keep them hidden away, as a character needs _'prayer'_ to be seen by the deities.

Cegorach smiles back at the grinning goddess. _'Aptly put my dear.'_ And a sharp gaze sweeps across the table. _'Did you all think of me as some random, loving, good hearted jester? I hope not. Surely, all of you are wise enough to understand just why someone so powerful would interest himself in this little realm's several corners, let alone summon a warrior that would **obliterate** all of your mortal children if completely let off the reigns. And I do mean that with as little ego as my clown-world loving self can muster.'_

Silence. Sweet, irritating silence. Whatever else he had to say on the matter died with him sharply glancing up, to the side, and back at the distracted Elven Goddess. His purple aura flares, stamping out a few pink threads at his feet, before his hands clap and a placating smile addresses startled onlookers. _'Now,'_ he laughs, _'I have errands to run back home. Do play nice until daddy returns.' _And with that he simply pops out of existence to the tune of breaking harp strings.

When the lesser deities are no longer anchored to their spots, none dare say which is worse, a serious Laughing God belittling their open and carefree minds, who comes and goes on a whim, or a madly grinning Elven Mother Goddess. She ignores their silent, godly whispers over what exactly let its cynical clownish self into their domain. It is much more entertaining squishing a non-prayer spider monster's figure crawling out from massive tree roots, twisting her thumb until its pinkish legs are no longer so evenly spaced.

That is until the Astarte's figure began sliding towards the forest's edge.

* * *

AN: July 17th, 2020: Shorter chapter, fitting to end it here for now. Reviews appreciated.


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